


danny get your gun (movement, velocity, impact)

by MMagpieMcCorkle



Series: got yours, got you, got mine, got me [2]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Child Death, Child Disappearance, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Gen, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 09:51:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMagpieMcCorkle/pseuds/MMagpieMcCorkle
Summary: After talking with Anne, Dan recalls his own childhood. Or at least a particularly stark event.





	danny get your gun (movement, velocity, impact)

**Author's Note:**

> full warning: this is a fair bit more graphic than "wouldst thou" in relation to child & domestic abuse, and does feature a (fairly?) graphic death scene, although they are mostly flashbacks/nightmares (if that helps any?). please bewarb.

Something he learned in group therapy: talking about one's own experiences can help open a door for someone else to talk about their own experiences, or upsets them, or both. Dan knows that from all possible angles. And now that Anne has told him what she will, and his small note-under-the-door confession having slipped out of his mouth, he can't stop thinking about it.

He hardly ever speaks to Mom anymore. And he has no idea where Dolly is these days. Diane was officially dead, has been for twenty-seven years.

 _Christ,_ he thinks, running one hand through his hair while his other arm is wrapped around Anne, who looks as small as anything all bunched up against him, _it's been that fucking long._

There was still no body in the coffin six feet underground.

-

When he finally falls asleep, it's near to three o'clock in the morning. Mom's voice seems to whisper, _The witching hour_ , so giddily in his mind's ear, like she used to when he was a kid and she'd tell her children stories, all horrible in some way but endlessly fascinating. He can hardly recall them now, not even a strand.

It's long past the witching hour when he starts to remember. Mom on the kitchen floor howling like a dead bog creature. Dad, above and snarling for blood, knife in his hand, hatchet in his hand, some sort of fucking blade that keeps shapeshifting in his hand. Sisters in a cage, forced to watch. The cage part wasn't entirely truthful, but there was a basement that locked from the outside; it was always damp, and musty, and cold even in summer. And Diane still looked as young as she did when she disappeared. Sometimes younger. Sometimes much, much younger.

And Dan? Danny-boy? Danny-boy's a statue. There's a gun right there, Danny-boy, a pistol, a shotgun, a rifle, whatever tickles your pickle, little man, _just got for it!_

His own act of violence has always been surprising, and then upsetting, dismaying, **horrifying**. Daddy's little murderer becomes a surgeon to save so many lives but all of Daddy's misty chest-blood just won't fucking wash off, will it?

Mom always screams, afterwards. Not for Dan, but for her husband. Dolly and Diane scream, too. Scream at Danny. Danny the Daddy-murderer.

-

It was self-defence. Dad had turned around and would've struck Dan with a deadly blow with the chef's knife if Dan hadn't fired the pistol at him first. First, second, third. Fourth, fifth, and sixth were all empties.

Mom had cried, but out of relief. Dolly was still yelling in the basement. Dad had the key on him. The neighbours called the cops. Dan was never guilty.

-

Breakfast in the morning sees Dan rubbing at tired, itchy eyes, and Anne wakes after he does. Unusual: Anne's the early riser out of anyone, always has been. He wonders, briefly, guiltily, if it was just a natural habit, or home-borne. House-borne. He rubs his eyes again and smiles at her. "Mornin'."

"Morning." Hesitation at the end, a precursor to a sensitive question. "Bad dream last night?" The way she asks sounds as if she wants to apologise when she has nothing to apologise for. Dan curls his hand with hers, just as the night before.

"Yeah, but it's not your fault."

She doesn't look convinced.

"C'mon, I've made breakfast."

Still not convinced, but she sits down. Before she takes a bite, he confesses. "I shot my dad when I was fifteen." It's considerably more direct, more blunt than Anne last night, leaving little to the imagination. Anne says, "He deserved it."

"Yes."

She squeezes his hand a little tightly. "He died?"

"Yes." He can't meet her eyes; satisfied in the moment that Dad was dead, Dad was _over_ , but every moment after was an aching reminder that anyone can be capable of anything, and Dan -- Dan is _better_ than that. _He deserved it._ The phrase both does and doesn't make him feel better, make him feel sick. Anne's never had something to final and halting. She squeezes his hand. He laughs, nerves straining him, and says, "Breakfast is getting cold."

Breakfast is quiet. When Anne leaves for work at the office, she leaves with a kiss and a tight hug. "Takes two to tango." _Thank you for trusting me._

If anything else aches besides the knowledge of what he's capable of, it's the warm, pleasant and welcome ache of love for Anne. There's been nothing else like it.

**Author's Note:**

> if u spot a reference, u get a cookie, or any other sweet treat of ur choosing


End file.
